Macbeth: How does your patient, doctor? Doctor: Not so sick, my lord, as she is troubled with thick-coming fancies that keep her from rest. Macbeth: Cure her of that! Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased, pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow, raze out the written troubles of the brain, and with some sweet oblivious antidote cleanse the stuffed bosom of that perilous stuff which weighs upon her heart. Doctor: Therein the patient must minister to himself.

No, I will be the pattern of all patience; I will say nothing.

The better part of valor is discretion, in the which better part I have saved my life.

The dullness of the fool is the whetstone of the wits.

Gently to hear, kindly to judge.

Good hay, sweet hay, hath no fellow.

O, it is excellent To have a giant's strength; but it is tyrannous To use it like a giant.